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Poems of the day
 
February 3, 1998
 
Another bloody haiku
 
 
Blossoms linger on my tongue
Fresh upon my lips
My mouth is so empty now
 
 
 
Albuquerque, 3 February, 1998
Copyright (c) 1998 Marion Francis O’Shaughnessy

February 4, 1998
 
 Reflections from the Holy See
 
Such a faithful posture
A tender kiss
I am no pontiff
Nor is my ring
A badge of office
What is this heresy
But faith
I am faithful too
I am moved to tears
And ultimately
Laughter
 
 
Albuquerque, 3 February, 1998
Copyright (c) 1998 Marion Francis O’Shaughnessy

February 5, 1998
 
 12 St. & I-40
 
I step out of the sun
And
Feel February on my toes
Just past the tracks
Can I pass the tracks?
Back and forth
I look
Mountains to the right
Mesa to the left
Yet this tree bears fruit
Even in February
And the fruit
Bares succulent flesh
And
Juice to soak my beard
And
Intoxicate my vision
Knowing the volcanoes
Will not erupt
But the earth will move
Foundations will crumble
Boundaries cease to exist
And we live where we  will
We will live here
 
 
Albuquerque, 4 February, 1998
Copyright (c) 1998 Marion Francis O'Shaughnessy

February 20, 1998
 
Commencement
 
 
Fly with me, my sister,
To the mountains where we were born,
Through the ravines and canyons
Where we learned to soar so long ago.
 
Dine with me, my sister,
Upon the banquet of flesh that is our reward,
Our treasure from exploring
Where we were not sanctioned to delve.
 
Sleep with me, my sister,
In this bed of our own investment;
Where great fruit trees grow and blossom
In defiance of history.
 
Wake with me, my sister,
With the moon;  In your white petticoat
And all the accouterments of your sovereignty
Where I find my such exultation.
 
Dwell with me, my sister,
In this ancient naked grotto
Where creation has surprised us
And Apocolypse will never come.
 
 
Albuquerque, 20 February, 1998
Copyright (c) 1998 Marion Francis O’Shaughnessy  
March 1, 1997
 
She-Walks-With-Serpents
 
 
She-Walks-With-Serpents lives with me
In my heart where it is hardest.
She walks with me on broken concrete
On Roma Street littered with airline-sized
Iniquity strewn on pocked pavement;
With me, full of green chili, onions and pinto beans,
Both our bellies filled
And necks prickling with sweat.
We trod together across Route 66
Against the light and into the mountain.
She speaks to me;  She reminds me
I have a cunt also.
 
 
Albuqerque, 1 March, 1997
Copyright 1997 Marion Francis O’Shaughnessy

March 3. 1998
 
We like to go mountain climbing together
On lovely Spring mornings with the sun
Warming our backs and cheering the birds
That greet us.  Together we seek handholds
And loopholes that many would never find,
Indeed few have ever found, and discover ways
To climb higher than we have ever been before.
We find a ledge, more or less stable,
More or less flat, the rock there cool
And naked as we seek to be.  And there
We spread our lunch and shed our clothes.
I feast between her generous thighs
And her kisses fortify me for the arduous climb
That lies ahead.  We share bits of savory bread
And shards of our lives in other’s arms
And in the bosom of the place we have made
In the desert.  We finish with white wine
And exotic fruits known only to such elevations
Where each and every breath is less important
Than the knowledge that for us the climb
Will always be waiting.  Naked we will ascend,
Never to cover ourselves and return.
 
 
Albuquerque, 3 March, 1998
Copyright (c) 1998 Marion Francis O’Shaughnessy  
March 7, 1998
 
Renascence
 
 
I greet my first Spring in Albuquerque naked
But for my jewelry, functional and informative,
Tasting the wind from the mesa carrying
Tumbleweeds the size of Volkswagens.
The wind on my flesh is alien yet promising
A wantonness that is fulfilled with each passing hour,
With each lingering kiss.  The gentle rain
May not drench or chill me but it draws me
Out of the past and into the moment where
All the moments are.  The lightning
Brings no illumination for the future
Nor does the thunder move me at all
But these dual heralds bid me to speak
Words that do not fail.
 
 
Albuquerque, 6 March, 1998
Copyright (c) 1998 Marion Francis O’Shaughnessy  
March 11, 1998
 
 
A sunny morning in Albuquerque:
I lie in bed with Monet (or is it Matisse?)
And the lingering indulgent softness of your thighs
Upon my cheeks.  My lips still craving
The languid juiciness of your flesh,
I open my eyes at the end of a long
Delicious fast, feeling the buds on the cottonwoods
Yearning to burst free from their own slumber
And speak to us both in timbres
I recognize so well from before my birth.
I find the place in the image
Where your eyes resolve themselves
Into points of color and I wonder
Do you dream of me also?
 
 
Albuquerque, 11 March, 1998
Copyright (c) 1998 Marion Francis O’Shaughnessy  
March 12, 1998
 
Chrysalis
 
 
I met her as she emerged
Naked,
Still wet  and gleaming
From the lubricant of her transformation,
 
Her wings
Pale and splendid,
 
Her teeth
Sharp but untested,
 
Her heart
Renewed and lovely.
 
I could barely find my knees
In time
To pay homage.
I would feast of her loveliness, licking clean
Her transformative sheen
To reveal the revelation
And to revel with her
Under an invisible new moon.
 
Soon would her inquisitiveness
Add to her growing stature
And strengthen her new wings
As well as my own
Enthralled heart while
The red sunsets paint the mountains,
The moon waxes to full
And I walked naked to my mailbox.
 
 
Albuquerque, 11 March 1998
Copyright (c) 1998 Marion Francis O’Shaughnessy  
March 14, 1998
 
Opus in Connecticut Wrapper
 
 
From the smoldering compost
Of a poignant backyard, even with
Dead leaves and dog shit,
Watching from my steps where I sit
With my legs too far apart
For the sake of law and order,
She-who-walks-with-serpents speaks anew
And I can listen or not
As I choose.  I choose
Because I must and I listen
Because I will though I would
Fertilize this decay seeking life
With desperate ejaculation
Though my seed might seem destitute
To some.  To me it is filled
With pigment so sublime and color
So fertile that stones
Must take root and bloom.
 
Albuquerque, 12 March 1998
Copyright (c) 1998 Marion Francis O’Shaughnessy 
March 16, 1998
 
Snow and Tourquoise
 
I remember a sky
The color of piss
But I do not recall
Why I stayed.
Ultimately
I would flee for the health of my soul,
Leap from the abyss
On to the cliff
Where tiny planetary permutations
Might bring comfort to my enemies
But who cares?
I am emancipated,
Ameliorated,
Drowning in the shining golden sun,
Awash in the azure firmament,
Swimming with preeminence
And fucking beneath the stars.
You may climb my stairs
And look up my skirt
For that gleaming chime
That first begs only a kiss but
Soon demands commitment
To ecstasy.  To ecstasy!
Into ecstasy will I plunge
The purest knell, clean and ringing,
A spire too frank to be borne,
A pang too enticing to be relinquished.
 
 
Albuquerque, 12 March 1998
Copyright (c) 1998 Marion Francis O'Shaughnessy 
March 28, 1998
 
 Grass Stains
 
Under a sun that blazes despite
All the clichés, I am reading
Words that are strange and comforting
In their familiarity.  I’m listening
To new music and oblivious to the sounds
Of artifice, those rancid farts displayed
So gently and cruelly in the park
Where I come to tell the truth.
Here it is
--It’s just fucking and
Living here inhaling the musk
Of liberation through submission
To the brilliant answers of the mesa
To incisive questions asked
By the mountains.  I will live here
Heeding the rift but paying
No attention to the lies
Of meaning that the invaders tell because
I can’t hear them anyway.
 
 
Albuquerque, 28 March 1998
Copyright (c) 1998 Marion Francis O’Shaughnessy 
June 19, 1998
 
 
Such a gentle and sweet
Orchard-plucked fuck
I find upon my plate now.
 

Copyright (c) 1998 Marion Francis O’Shaughnessy

Albuquerque, 19 June, 1998 
July 7, 1998
 
 
There are good luck-pixies
Living
In my beard,
Naked,
Minuscule,
Significant,
Nesting in the follicles
Waiting for that drop of honey
Dripping from Jemez fry-bread,
To smear their naked pixie bodies
With sweet juices
Unknown to the world of conventional fruit
Found where only I find it.
I will feed them at all costs
Indeed
I will lick your fingers too
To nourish them
And myself;
They are such wicked
Good-luck pixies.
 
 
Copyright (c) 1998 Marion Francis O’Shaughnessy
Albuquerque, 6 July, 1998

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